Adrien English Mysteries: Fatal Shadows & A Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

  “Yeah, well with friends like you, who needs enemies?” Claude surged to his feet. Jabbed his hand toward the kitchen. “Go! Get the hell out! I don’t need you. I don’t need your kind of help.”

  “Sure,” I shot back. “You’ve got it under control. I can see that.” I gestured to the sign in the shuttered windows and him skulking in the dark.

  “Fuck off!” he shouted. He picked up the ashtray and threw it at my head. I mean, pitched it with a force that would have knocked me cold if it had connected. But I ducked, and the ashtray hit the post so hard it shattered.

  I gave Claude the universal sign for au revoir asshole and headed for the door.

  “You little prick, Adrien,” he called after me. “I’d have done it for you.”

  I kept hearing his words over and over as I drove away. I’d have done it for you. And I knew it was true. Were our positions reversed, Claude would have done whatever I asked. Who the hell was I to decide what was best for him?

  Halfway home I swung the Bronco around and started back for Café Noir.

  It took a while to find an ATM. I pulled two hundred from the business account, another two hundred from my personal, and finally the last eighty bucks I had in my savings. It wouldn’t take him far but it was the best I could do.

  By then it was dark in the empty parking lot. The sagging power lines hummed overhead as I got out of my car.

  I slipped through the back entrance, found myself in what Wilkie Collins would have called “complete obfuscation.” I felt around the wall, found the light switch. The fluorescent lights threw hard white light on steel sinks, polished floors, spotless trash pails.

  It was absolutely still.

  For a moment I thought Claude must have left -- but he would never forget to lock the café. Not even if he was never coming back.

  I opened my mouth to call out. Some instinct held me silent. From the dining room I heard a faint sound. Slowly I walked to the doorway and, as I reached it, someone hurtled through, crashing into me, knocking me to the glossy floor.

  I looked up, bewildered. I had a glimpse of dark raincoat, a hat pulled low, a skeleton face, a butcher’s knife. A vision straight out of a Wes Craven movie.

  Terror galvanized me. I rolled over, scrambled under the nearest table, grabbed for a chair to use as a shield. But the figure in the raincoat was running for the back door, black raincoat flapping like a scarecrow’s overcoat.

  Though my heart was in full gallop, my mind was strangely cool. Each moment, each detail, seemed clear and focused as I crawled out from under my flimsy fortress of table legs. I considered and instantly discarded giving chase.

  “Claude?”

  No answer but a strange sighing like the tide soughing against the shore. I felt my way through the gloom to the wall switch. Mini white lights like Christmas tree lights flared on all over the room like tiny stars.

  Claude lay by the front door, a dull puddle widening beneath him, slowly covering the black and white checked floor. I found my way to him. His pastel silk shirt was splotched with red; violent polka dots.

  At that point my brain shut down. I was seeing it, I was taking it all in, I kept twisting the key but the engine wouldn’t turn over. I dropped down on my knees. I touched Claude’s face and I noticed detachedly that my knuckles were grazed.

  Claude’s eyes, which were staring at nothing, blinked.

  He opened his mouth and blood spilled out in a gush. I put my hand over his mouth as though I could stop it from pouring out. I heard myself whispering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God....”

  * * * * *

  Police car lights cut swaths of red and blue through the thick night. There were uniforms everywhere, making room for each other as they passed in and out the narrow rear entrance of Café Noir. I leaned against a police car. From inside, the radio was transmitting to nobody. I hugged my arms against the cold and my nerves.

  Riordan strode out of the kitchen doorway and spotted me. His shoes crunched on gravel as he approached.

  I remembered that Claude said Riordan threatened to kill him. I hadn’t believed him. Now Claude was dead.

  “How are you doing?”

  I nodded tightly, having found that little movements made it easier to hide the fact I was still shaking.

  He scrutinized my face. “How’s the heart?”

  “Takes a licking, keeps on ticking.”

  He continued to stare. Asked curtly, “You want my jacket?”

  I didn’t think I heard him right so I gave my stock response. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Do tell.” He shrugged out of his suede jacket, tossed it to me. It felt like something newly dead hanging there in my hands. After a moment I fumbled my way into it. It was warm from his body and carried the scent of his soap.

  “When did you hurt your hand?”

  I looked dully at my scraped knuckles. “I don’t remember. When I crawled under the table, I guess.”

  “Uh huh.” He started to say something, then seemed to change his mind. “Feel up to telling me what you saw?” His breath hung in the light from the parking lot overheads.

  I nodded toward one of the uniforms. “He took my statement.”

  “Now tell me.”

  I told him what I’d seen. He took it in, not taking notes, just nodding slowly.

  “Skull mask? You mean like the mask you saw on the prowler outside your apartment?”

  I assented.

  “Or do you think you saw something, say a white ski mask, and your mind made the connection?”

  “No.”

  “You said yourself it all happened pretty fast.”

  “I know what I saw. A skull mask. Like you buy at Halloween. The same mask. The same man. Hefty. Your height. Your build.” I was having trouble controlling my voice.

  Riordan’s eyes flickered. “Okay. Bring it down a notch, Adrien.”

  “See, I have this problem,” I told him. I told myself to stay cool but my hands balled into fists and my voice rose. “There is such an obvious link between everything that has happened that a blind man could see it, but somehow you don’t see it. So I am asking myself, why don’t you see it? Because you don’t want to? Or because you don’t want anyone else to?”

  “Lower your voice.”

  A plain blue sedan pulled into the parking lot, shelling gravel, rolling up beside us. Chan got out in a cloud of tobacco smoke, ground a cigarette underfoot. He looked even more tired and depressed than usual.

  Riordan walked over to him. They conferenced briefly. Riordan hiked a thumb over his shoulder at me. Chan nodded politely. I nodded back. Crime scene etiquette, I guess.

  Chan and Riordan disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later a gurney bearing a black body bag was wheeled through the doorway.

  I closed my eyes. Immediately I saw Claude’s mouth open and blood spilling out. I scrubbed my face with both hands.

  More time passed.

  The adrenaline which had originally kept me going seeped away, leaving me cold and sick and exhausted. I’d have given anything just to sit. I considered dropping down on the parking lot gravel and leaning back against the police car tire. From the kitchen I listened to raised voices. One of them was Riordan.

  Finally a young woman in uniform with French braided hair came out. “Mr. English? I’m Officer Montoya. Detective Riordan has instructed me to drive you home now.”

  “Thanks. I can drive myself.”

  She was polite but firm. “You may not realize it but you’re still in shock, sir. Best to let someone else drive you.”

  I decided this was probably their means of making sure I didn’t make my break for the border.

  “What about my car?”

  “The Ford Bronco? My partner, Officer Lincoln, will drive it back for you.”

  Thus the prim and lovely Officer Montoya escorted me back to Pasadena and saw me to my door like the little gentleman she was.

  “Would you like me to check the premises, sir?” One small h
and rested on her night stick.

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Sure?” She smiled. It reminded me of the professional smile nurses give you when they see you’re starting to fray around the edges.

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “Lock yourself in, sir.”

  “You betcha.”

  Officer Montoya strolled confidently off into the night and I locked the door against the darkness, against the unknown. Locked myself in with the silence and memory.

  Chapter Eleven

  The answering machine was winking at me as I shrugged out of Riordan’s jacket and hung it on the iron coat stand.

  I hit Play. A pause and then Bruce’s voice said awkwardly, “I guess I was kind of an asshole earlier. If you want to call me I’ll be home all night.”

  I called him. He picked it up on the fourth ring just as I was getting ready to hang up.

  “Hi. It’s me.”

  “Adrien.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I hoped you’d call.”

  “I’m sorry about tonight. It was unavoida --” My voice gave out right then and there.

  Bruce made alarmed noises. “What is it? The cops? What’s wrong?”

  It took a minute or two but finally I managed to be coherent.

  “Adrien, my God,” Bruce kept murmuring while I told him in terse sentences what had happened. “My God, Adrien. You could have been killed.”

  I closed my eyes, resting my forehead on my hand.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t sound all right. Do you want me to come over?”

  “No. No, I shouldn’t drag you into this.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  I was torn between guilt and relief. I thought I’d go nuts if I had to spend the night alone.

  “Give me thirty minutes.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  * * * * *

  His body was beautiful: long-limbed, strong and beautiful. It felt good rubbing naked against mine. Everything he did felt good, despite the fact that it had clearly been a long time for him as well.

  Our cocks slid together, the pleasurable scrape and thrust. Like bucks locking velvet-covered antlers in the spring. Testing, pushing.

  Bruce’s hand closed around my dick, working us together. Rigid thickness poking belly and thigh, rolling against each other.

  “Do you like this?”

  “God, yes.”

  “Good. I aim to please.” He did too, despite the fumbling, the lack of choreography, the absence of what Mel used to call “simpatico.” We were groping our way through the dark, literally, trying to find each other.

  His mouth found mine, hot and wet. Hungry. I liked the hunger. Feeding it left me no time to think. I opened up, let his tongue shove in, let him explore. His fingers dug into my shoulders wanting closer, needing closer. I pressed closer, arched against him. He humped furiously. I rocked my hips welcoming the release roiling up inside. It was okay to take this. He needed it just as much as I did. His desperate cries spilled into my mouth. I kissed him, hips jerking. We pounded against each other and then he was coming, wet heat filling his condom. He groaned, his hand clenching spasmodically around my shaft. I groaned too, twisted, ground my hips. My balls tightened, my whole body stretching bow tight -- and then that singing release.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he asked later.

  “I’m not thinking. It’s wonderful.” You think too much, Robert had said. You analyze everything to death, Mel had said. I closed my ears to Mel’s voice, to the memory of Robert. I gave myself to the moment, rubbed my cheek against Bruce’s chest feeling the soft wire of his black hair. His arm tightened around my shoulders. I nestled into him, kissed his nipple.

  “Can you see in the dark?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I used to have a Siamese cat with eyes just the color of yours. He was the prettiest thing.” He had that chatty note in his voice, the rare guy who is energized by sex. Not me. A police raid wouldn’t have kept me awake at that point. Feeling safe and comfortable and warm, I let go.

  Warm blood soaking the knees of my khakis, blood sticky on my fingers. Claude’s eyes focused on mine, beseeching, trying to tell me ... what?

  “Who?” I whispered.

  Claude’s face shuddered. His whole body shuddered, the red slices welling blood, little mouths trying to speak. His lips unstuck. A gush of blood, bright red blood splashing out. A gurgling wet sound as he struggled...

  “Jesus!” I sat bolt upright, lungs laboring, heart racing in blind terror.

  There was commotion beside me. Books sliding off the bedstand as Bruce flailed around trying to find the lamp.

  The light came on, rocked wildly, throwing menacing shadows before Bruce steadied it.

  “What’s wrong?” His lank hair was flattened to his head. He fingered it out of his eyes, staring at me. “What’s the matter?”

  It took a second to get my breath. I waited to see how upset about all this my heart was going to be. Finally I exhaled and leaned back cautiously into the pillows.

  I shook my head. “Nightmare. Sorry. I’m okay now.”

  He was frowning. “What did you dream?”

  “I don’t remember.” I nodded to the night table. “Could I have some water?”

  Bruce picked up the glass of water, handed it over. I met his eyes and looked away. He looked out of place in my bed with his heavy three o’clock shadow, the brown protuberant nipples against his white skin. He looked ... strange. It came hard to me that this was because he was ... a stranger.

  “Talk to me,” urged Bruce. “What the hell did you see tonight?”

  “I just want to sleep. Okay?”

  He nodded slowly. Took the glass from me. Pulled me into his arms cautiously as though he sensed I might resist.

  He fell asleep long before I did.

  I was letting Bruce out the front entrance when Riordan showed up early the next morning.

  Natural enemies, the Press and the Police -- they gave each other wide berth like well-trained but suspicious dogs.

  I could see Bruce was hoping for a farewell smooch. I felt uncomfortable under Riordan’s sardonic eye -- what the hell was he doing there so early, anyway? I returned Bruce’s embrace as stiffly as a Ken doll without the bendable knees.

  “I’ll call you,” Bruce said, releasing me.

  I nodded.

  “Well, well,” Riordan commented, clomping up the stairs behind me.

  I ignored him, went into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee.

  “Sugar. No milk,” he requested, pulling a chair from the table.

  I poured him coffee. He took the cup in two big hands manly-man style. He looked like I felt, as though he hadn’t slept all night, but he’d at least had time to shave and comb his hair.

  He wore jeans, a gray sweatshirt and Reeboks, as though he had been on his way to the gym. Now that was kind of curious. He wasn’t dressed for work and he had been lurking outside my shop at the crack of dawn. Early for a social call. Was he planning to knock off a potential witness?

  “For the record,” he began crisply, “There was no chess piece at the scene. We vacuumed it. Twice.”

  “Maybe I interrupted him before he could plant it.”

  “Maybe. But you didn’t go to high school with La Pierra did you? La Pierra was never a member of any Chess Club?”

  “No.”

  He sipped his coffee. Felt his point had been made, I guess.

  Two separate killers preying on the gay community at the same time? I didn’t buy it.

  I said, “Maybe Claude was killed for another reason.”

  “Like?”

  “He thought he knew who killed Robert.”

  “And that would be --?”

  “You.”

  He was expecting this it seemed. His lips quirked in a half-smile. “You do have balls, English.” He took another swall
ow of coffee.

  When nothing else seemed forthcoming I said, “Claude said you were gay.”

  This did get a reaction, although not what I expected.

  “Gay.” Riordan made a sound of disgust. “What a stupid term.”

  “What do you prefer?”

  “Homosexual. Having sexual desire for those of the same sex.”

  “Yeah, such a mouthful though.”

  He slanted me a tawny look. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’ve had time to adjust to the idea.”

  “Me too, but it still comes as a shock.”

  When he moved, the outline of the powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders was plainly visible beneath the soft material of the sweatshirt. Same with the taut outline of his thigh muscles in those comfortably faded jeans. He would have made quick work of Rob or even Claude. He’d make quick work of me, no doubt, but somehow the fact that he smelled like deodorant soap and April-fresh fabric softener disarmed me. He smelled -- and looked -- like he grabbed his clothes straight out of the hot dryer. The sad thing was the overall impression was as groomed and confident as Bruce who spent three times the effort and money in getting that I-was-an-International-Male-model effect.

  Life ain’t fair.

  I asked, genuinely curious, “How do you function? Does anyone know?”

  “No. I kill everyone I fuck,” he said derisively. “What do you think?”

  “I mean anyone close to you. Family or friends?”

  He met my gaze levelly. “No. And no one’s going to.” That was certainly straight enough for anyone.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Do you really think I killed La Pierra?” He seemed amused.

  “He said you threatened him.”

  “Oh, I did. And I meant it. It’s as much as my life is worth out there.” He jerked his head indicating the mean streets of Old Pasadena I suppose.

  “What do you do? You date women?”

  “I like women.” After a moment he added wryly, “I just like men better.”

  I stared, trying to make sense of him. Now I knew why that old Sarah McLachlan song had seemed so appropriate. Especially the line, “You’re so beautiful. A beautiful fucked up man.” That about summed it up.